Rose Harbor in Bloom

by Debbie Macomber

  Her hands, which had been fidgeting, went still. “How could I not, but it didn’t change what I knew about myself. I simply wouldn’t make a good mother and I knew it. Still she was part of you and me, the very best part. It was because I loved her that I decided to give her a family, a real family.”

  It took him a few moments to digest her words. “When did you learn it was a girl?”

  “I saw her for the first time after the doctor ordered an ultrasound. Because I was a bit older, the obstetrician wanted to be sure the baby was developing as she should. He told me there were no guarantees, but it looked like a girl to him.”

  George nodded. “Tell me more.”

  Mary wasn’t sure what she should say. “I used to sing to her at night before we went to sleep … well,” she said and smiled softly, “before I went to sleep. I thought she would turn out to be a soccer player. My goodness, that girl could kick.”

  He smiled. “I wish …” He didn’t complete his thought. He didn’t need to; Mary understood.

  “I know. I wish you could have felt her move, too.” So often Mary had wondered if she’d done the right thing by leaving George and not telling him of her decision. A hundred times over the course of the pregnancy, Mary had wanted to contact him, especially toward the end of her third trimester, when she’d been so bloated and so terribly uncomfortable. She’d successfully hidden the fact that she was pregnant from her staff. Some might have guessed, but it was never discussed. The last ten weeks she’d taken a leave of absence, letting the company assume she’d gone home to take care of an ailing parent. Those last few weeks of the pregnancy had been dreadful. Her hands and feet had swollen until they felt like overstuffed sausages.

  “You were alone when you had her?”

  Mary nodded. Because of her age and fear of other complications, her OB had suggested a cesarean. It was only as a precaution. After weighing her options, Mary had opted for a vaginal birth. This would be her only pregnancy and birth, and she wanted the full experience. And she got it. In spades.

  “I would have given anything to have been at your side,” he said.

  “No, George, be glad you weren’t there. I was a horrible patient.”

  “It was bad?”

  Mary shrugged. “For obvious reasons, I didn’t take those natural birthing classes. So I watched a couple of movies and read a few books and assumed I was prepared.”

  “You weren’t?”

  Mary responded with a short laugh. “Nothing can prepare a woman for what labor is like. After four hours I was thinking this was taking much longer than it should, and I demanded the doctor do something to speed up the process. The labor room nurse went out of her way to assure me it would be hours yet, and I was having none of it.”

  “How long did the labor last?”

  Mary smiled at the memory. Knowing how sensitive George was, she felt it was best not to fill in the gory details. By the time she’d been ready to deliver, she’d used language that would shock a sailor. This birthing business wasn’t for sissies. Despite the pain and repeated reassurances, she’d held fast, insisting she wanted a natural birth for fear of what drugs would do to the baby. She’d managed it, too. In retrospect, the entire experience had been nothing short of incredible.

  “Labor takes as long as it takes,” Mary said, answering his question, “but our daughter seemed bound and determined to stay right where she was. Apparently, it was comfortable and warm and she could suck her thumb.”

  “She sucked her thumb?”

  “Constantly.”

  “In utero?”

  “Oh, yes,” Mary said, and then explained, “I felt this rhythmic kicking from her, which kept me up most nights in the last trimester. Then after she was born I watched as she sucked her thumb and I realized that was what was happening when I was trying my best to find a comfortable position in which to sleep.”

  George now had a full-blown smile. “I sucked my thumb until I was five,” he admitted. “I had my favorite blanket that I dragged along with me everywhere I went. It drove my father nuts. Mom was smart, though. She washed it every week and cut a small strip away until the blanket was a little more than a ten-inch square.”

  “Didn’t you suspect what she was doing?”

  “I had my suspicions. Mom insisted it shrank, and after a few months she told me the washing machine had eaten it.”

  “Clever woman.”

  “I hated that washing machine,” George said, chuckling. “For years every time I went near it, I’d kick it, until I realized I hurt my foot far more than I did that machine.”

  How dear he was, Mary thought, as she smiled over at him. Her heart ached with love for him and for the daughter they would never know.

  His smile faded. “What did she look like?”

  Mary nodded. “Newborns are notoriously ugly. No one will say it, of course, but the birthing process isn’t much easier on the baby than it is on the mother.”

  “Our daughter was ugly?”

  “No, that’s just it. Despite everything, she was a beauty, George, simply beautiful. I stood outside the nursery window and stared at her for hours.”

  “Were you”—he hesitated as if unsure how to say what he meant—“sore?”

  “No. In fact, I felt amazing. I wanted to pound my chest like Tarzan and yell at the world, ‘Look what I’ve done.’ I don’t believe I’ve ever felt more empowered than after giving birth.”

  George chuckled a second time and then grew sober. “Did you … hold her, or were you required to give her up right away?”

  If only he knew. “I held her every chance I got. It was important that I knew in my heart that I was making the right decision. I was bringing a life into this world. A precious life that was part you and part me. It was up to me to give her the very best future that I could, and I had to accept that that future wasn’t with me.”

  Scooting closer, George reached for her hand.

  “This pregnancy, this infant, was bigger than just you and me,” Mary said, locking her eyes with his.

  “Do you know who adopted her?”

  “Yes. I personally chose the family.”

  His eyes widened. “You chose them?”

  It’d taken her weeks of reading applications and going over family studies before Mary felt ready to make her final decision. “I went through a private adoption agency. One I had researched extensively and had a flawless reputation.”

  “Did you meet the … parents?”

  “No … not face-to-face. The option was mine, but I chose not to have an open adoption. In retrospect, I feel I made the right decision.”

  “How so?”

  Mary broke eye contact and looked down. “If I’d had contact,” she said, swallowing against the thickness in her throat, “I think I might have been tempted to change my mind and try to nullify the adoption.”

  “You missed her.”

  “I didn’t sleep through the night for weeks, agonizing over my decision. Then everything changed.”

  “What happened?”

  Mary found it more difficult to tell him than she’d ever thought it would be. So much of what she told George had been buried deep in her psyche. As she relayed the details of the pregnancy, birth, and adoption, more memories floated to the surface, like flecks of snow blowing off a fast-moving car.

  This was what had been happening ever since she’d been diagnosed with cancer. It seemed as if someone had hit a speed button and she was hurled into a time machine, with her life whirling forward at an impossible speed.

  After handing their daughter to the agency representative who would take the baby to her new family, Mary had suffered with doubts and indecision. For a while she considered seeing a counselor. As a private person, she’d never been comfortable sharing herself with strangers, especially something this personal. In addition, she feared this information would get back to the investment firm where she was employed. Seeing a mental health specialist might give the appearance of weakne
ss, and she dare not risk that.

  “Giving our baby up for adoption was harder than you expected, wasn’t it?”

  She nodded rather than spoke, afraid her voice would give away exactly how difficult that decision had been. After taking a few seconds to regain her self-control, she said, “Everything changed after the agency forwarded a letter to me from the adoptive mother. The family named her Amanda.”

  Mary had thought to avoid the details, but the more they talked, the more comfortable she became discussing this painful subject. Besides that, George had a right to know.

  “Amanda,” George repeated slowly, thoughtfully. “I like the name.”

  “If … If I’d raised her, I would have named her Elizabeth.”

  “Elizabeth. After your mother?”

  Mary grinned. “She died long before Amanda was born … I loved my mother; I’m grateful she never knew about my decision; she would have been disappointed in me.”

  “Don’t be so sure; you gave our daughter life,” George reassured her.

  Mary squeezed his hand, appreciating his words of comfort. “If I needed confirmation that I’d done the right thing, I got it. The adoptive family named her Amanda Elizabeth.”

  “Oh, Mary.”

  “I know. Their letter was filled with gratitude and love. I had every assurance I would need that Amanda would be deeply loved and that the family would provide for her emotional, physical, and spiritual well-being. They’re good people, George. I chose well.”

  “Have you heard from the family since that time?”

  Mary heard the hopeful tone in his voice. “No. Not once. It was the way I wanted it, for Amanda’s sake as well as my own.”

  “And everything went along smoothly after that?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Until the cancer,” he added.

  “Until the cancer,” she confirmed.

  George knelt down in front of her. His arms circled Mary’s waist and held her close to his heart. For a long time they clung to each other.

  Neither of them spoke.

  George broke the silence, straightened, and pressed his hand against the side of her face. His eyes were warm and gentle, filled with love.

  “Thank you,” he whispered.

  Mary had anticipated disappointment, even anger. His gratitude took her by surprise. “For what?” she asked. She had rejected his love and marriage proposal, and left him. He had every reason to detest her.

  “For giving my baby life.”

  “Oh, George.” Wrapping her arms around his neck, she clung to him.

  When they broke apart, she wiped the moisture from his cheeks and then smiled as he did the same for her.

  Mary was tempted, so very tempted, to tell him the rest.

  But she couldn’t. Not yet.

  Chapter 21

  I enjoyed seeing Peggy and Corrie. I waved them off and then sat for a short while on the step, enjoying the sunshine.

  Rover lay down in the grass for a while before chasing after a butterfly. I kept a close eye on him, but he seemed to understand that this was his home and where he belonged. Whenever I let him outside, he never ventured far. I suppose I should count myself lucky that he was this well behaved. It made me wonder if he’d been trained by someone … someone who missed him and was concerned about what had happened to him. Perhaps one day I’d have the answer to those questions, but for now, I was happy to have him with me.

  The mail was delivered, and I decided to check it when I finished setting a few flower pots about the area where one day my rose garden would be.

  Afterward I walked down to the mailbox. The majority of the mail was advertisements, an assortment of bills, and a magazine. Only one envelope was hand addressed, and it looked to be a formal announcement. I tore it open and saw that my guess was right. It was a wedding invitation. As soon as I read the names, I smiled.

  It was from Abby Kincaid. Abby was one of my very first guests who’d come to stay shortly after I took over the inn in January. She’d arrived for her brother’s wedding and seemed withdrawn, reticent, and decidedly uncomfortable. Soon afterward I learned she had been behind the wheel when her best friend, Angela, had been killed in a car accident the year they were college freshmen. From that moment forward, Abby’s entire life had been placed on hold. It was as if she’d lived in limbo, avoiding all contact with friends and classmates.

  What made this wedding invitation so wonderful was the fact that it confirmed what Paul had told me soon after I moved into the inn. This bed-and-breakfast would be a place of healing, for me and for those who came to stay.

  For Abby, returning to Cedar Cove for her brother’s wedding had set everything that had happened to her since into motion. The last place on earth she’d ever wanted to be again was this town, fearing whom she’d see. Perhaps even worse was being forced to confront the memories of that horrible winter’s night when Angela had died.

  “Rover, oh, Rover,” I said, in my excitement, “look. Abby and Steve Hooks are to be married.”

  Rover, who rested next to me on the top step, cocked his head to one side and regarded me quizzically.

  “This is wonderful news. Don’t you remember her?” It was a silly question, because clearly he didn’t have a clue who or what I was talking about. The news was too good to keep to myself.

  Leaping up, I hurried into the house, set the mail down on my desk, and reached for the phone. I could think of only one person to tell.

  Mark answered almost right away.

  “How are you doing?” I asked.

  “I was just fine until my nap got interrupted. I hate taking these damn pain pills. They put me to sleep.”

  “I’m sorry. I woke you?” I asked, feeling guilty.

  “You didn’t, the phone did. What’s up?” he asked.

  “I heard from Abby Kincaid.”

  “Who?”

  “Abby. She was one of my first two houseguests back in January.”

  “Oh, yeah, I remember her. Real quiet … was in town for her brother’s wedding, right?”

  “Right. I received a wedding invitation from her in today’s mail.” I was more than a bit reluctant to share this news with him, seeing what a grump he was.

  “Nice,” he said, surprising me. “Is it the guy she met at her brother’s wedding? Wasn’t he her brother’s old college roommate?”

  How he knew about that I could only speculate. “Yes. How’d you know?”

  “How do I know anything? You told me.”

  “When?” I certainly didn’t remember saying anything about Abby and Steve.

  “I don’t know, but how else would I know?”

  Good question. I must have said something, but I certainly didn’t remember.

  “What about Josh and Michelle? Do you ever hear anything from them?” Josh had been at the inn at the same time as Abby. Abby and Josh had been my very first guests.

  I hadn’t. “I saw Michelle in the grocery store not long ago, but it was only in passing.”

  “They’ll get married,” Mark said matter-of-factly.

  “Oh, and what makes you such an expert on matters of the heart?”

  He chuckled.

  Actual amusement from Mark? Now, that was a switch. The sound took me by surprise, and it was all I could do not to laugh myself.

  “The two of them had the look,” Mark explained.

  “The look?”

  “Didn’t Josh stay on a couple of extra days from what he’d originally planned?”

  “He did.” I had no idea Mark would be so detail oriented when it came to people.

  “Thought so.”

  “It was because of his stepfather, remember? Richard died, and Josh felt obligated to settle Richard’s affairs.”

  “That’s the excuse he used. He stayed because of Michelle.”

  “You chatted with him, and he spilled out his heart to you?” If ever there was a joke, this was it. Neither Mark nor Josh was the type to discuss their personal live
s.

  “In a manner of speaking, you could say so.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “Believe what you want,” he said. “Can I get back to my nap now?”

  “By all means.” I was ready to hang up the phone when he stopped me.

  “Jo Marie.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I hope you’ll overlook me being cranky. I didn’t mean to snap at you like that.”

  “You’re excused,” I said, making light of his bad mood. He was worried that I’d taken offense. It surprised me.

  “It’s these stupid pills.”

  “Of course it is,” I joked. “If it wasn’t for the medication, you’d be a regular Marvin Sunshine.”

  He chuckled. “I take it that’s a bit of sarcasm.”

  “Just a tad,” I said with a smile.

  “Listen, I’ll do my best to get working on your rose garden as soon as I get out of this cast.”

  “I know.” And I appreciated that he remained concerned about the job. “I’ll stop by later this evening and bring you dinner.”

  “No need. I’ve got peanut butter and jelly.”

  “I’ll bring you a real dinner,” I insisted.

  “Peanut butter is real food.”

  “Right,” I agreed, knowing it would do no good to argue with him. “I’ll be by sometime after six.”

  He sighed as if he was far too weary to fight me. “Okay, I give in. Do whatever suits you.”

  Shaking my head, I docked the phone and picked up Abby’s wedding invitation, reading it a second time. The wedding was scheduled for August and would take place in Florida. I brewed myself a cup of coffee and sat down at the small kitchen table.

  I remembered the day Abby and I had talked and she’d told me about the car accident that had claimed her best friend’s life. The car crash had basically robbed Abby of her future. She’d been dating Steve Hooks at the time and had broken it off with him, partially out of guilt and partially out of a sense of unworthiness. It didn’t seem right to her that she should be happy, should fall in love and continue on with her own life when Angela was dead.

  The doorbell rang, and Rover barked and rushed to the front door. It was the woman who lived next door. A real sweetheart, Mrs. Coryelle had to be close to eighty. I’d chatted with her daughter several times and had gone to check on the older woman now and again.